


This Is Not Your Jacket

by GreyscaleCourtier



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Moblit Doesn't Get Paid Enough For This, The word "crunk" used unironically, University AU If You Squint Sort Of, one dead fish, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyscaleCourtier/pseuds/GreyscaleCourtier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We accidentally switched jackets at some point and I found some really weird shit in your pockets" AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Not Your Jacket

**Author's Note:**

  * For [someonestolemyshoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/gifts).



This is not your jacket.

It’s a fucking tragedy that it’s taken you until you got home to find out, cause now it’s going to be a bitch tracking down whoever owns this piece of shit and convincing them that they have yours. Hell, you’re just lucky you keep your house keys in your jeans. You briefly consider ignoring the whole ordeal and just keeping it - but you really did like that one, dammit, and you are getting that fucking jacket back if you have to stab a fuck.

Plus this one is too long in the sleeves and smells nothing like your usual combination of cigarette smoke and Windex. It smells like roses and… fucking formaldehyde? You frown at the jacket in your hand and start to wonder who, exactly, this person is.

Pockets. Pockets would be a good start. Maybe there’s a cell phone, or a driver’s license or something you can use to identify the owner oh my god that is blood, that is actual, sloshing human blood in a glass vial and the only thing keeping you from dropping it is knowing if it shatters then you’ll have some stranger’s biohazard splattered on your carpet along with broken glass and possibly AIDS and thanks to your shit luck you’ll probably step on it and catch AIDS and fucking die and you are thirty-three and  _you cannot die this young._

Very, very carefully, you place the vial on your table with a mental note to bleach the damn thing before you touch it again, and reach back in the pockets with the utmost care. At least it can’t get any weirder.

You pull out a dead fish and  _that_ time you drop it.

You hold your hand out like it’s diseased (it probably  _is,_  now) and try to calm your heart rate. Who the fuck keeps a dead fish in a coat pocket. Oh my god. You carried this thing into your home. It was in your  _arms._  Oh god. You’re going to need three showers and possibly a priest.

When you’re no longer in danger of having a coronary you lean down to examine the fish. It’s small; a goldfish, you think as you prod it with the toe of your shoe. It’s definitely dead, but apparently hasn’t been for long - it sort of squishes when you touch it, and you didn’t necessarily smell anything on the jacket. But then again, the formaldehyde probably covered it up.

You leave the jacket for a moment, scoop the fish up in a paper towel and deposit it on the table next to the vial of blood (you’ve just decided to burn the damn table after all is said and done) and scrub your hands up to your elbows, grab a pair of kitchen gloves, and dive back into the pockets of probable death.

Ten minutes later, you have found six Kit Kat wrappers (cut open, not ripped), a fake police badge that reads “Deputy Sexy,” a strip of perfume-paper torn from a magazine, a pair of tweezers, an eyeglass cleaning cloth covered in flecks of rust, ninety-two cents in change and… oh thank Christ it’s an ID card.

**Hanji Zoe  
** **Biochemistry  
** **Sina University  
** **860-910-4419**

Hanji Zoe picks up on the third ring, somewhat breathless and too loud in your ear. “Hello?”

“Hanji Zoe?” you say because you didn’t really think this through and need to stall for time.

“’S me. Is this a student, cause if so you’re gonna need to fuck off for like, eight hours, minimum. Check the syllabus–”

“No, you have my jacket.”

“Wh… ahh, fuck, I thought these sleeves shrank.” There’s a ruffle of movement in the background. “Okay, meet me over here and you can get your woman-jacket back.”

Part of you wants to insist it’s  _not_  a woman-jacket, but it is and you can’t deny it. What can you say. You’re small and they flatter your waistline. “Where am I meeting you?”

“Y'know the bar outside Sina U? We’re over there. Buncha the faculty are getting crunk before midterms.”

Crunk. What kind of biochemistry professor is this? “I can be there in ten. How will I know–”

_Click._

You heave a sigh and pack everything back into the jacket pockets (except for the Kit Kat wrappers, which you throw out), scrub your hands again, and grab your keys.

~

It turns out, Hanji Zoe isn’t that hard to find.

For one thing, she’s still wearing your jacket.

For another, she’s currently leading two-thirds of the bar in a rousing rendition of  _Tik Tok,_  one arm slung around a guy who looks simultaneously nervous and harassed. You blink in the noise and choose to lean back against the wall until the impromptu karaoke is done. While you wait, you scan the crowd and try to pick out who exactly might voluntarily choose to accompany this clearly mad scientist.

When Hanji Zoe belts out the last chorus, red-faced and breathless and still wearing your jacket, and the nervous guy beside her shrugs her arm off, you weave through the crowd and introduce yourself by thrusting the jacket of death at her. “This yours?” you say, because wow you still didn’t think this far ahead and that’s what comes out of your offensively blunt mouth.

She blinks owlishly a few times through her glasses before it clicks and she laughs, shrugging carelessly out of her - your, your jacket - and holding it out to you. “Right, yeah. Moblit! Moblit, this is the guy! The guy I was telling you about whose clothes I stole by accident.”

Moblit - the harassed but thankfully apparently sober guy - sighs and nods at you but doesn’t offer his hand. You appreciate that and nod back at him. He looks like he’s had a rough day. You take your jacket back and hand over Hanji’s. “So, why the hell do you have a dead fish in your pocket?”

She looks back up at you, enormous brown eyes wide, and plunges her hand into the pocket. “Shit on a–fuck, Moblit, I accidentally stole Perseus from the lab.”

Moblit doesn’t answer, probably because he left about thirty seconds ago. “Perseus?” you repeat. “It has a name?”

“Oh yeah. We were doing experiments on testosterone last week and fish are cheap.” She finishes shrugging into her jacket and continues fumbling in the pockets. “Oh,  _great,_  I stole an undergrad’s blood sample too. Gonna have to put that back before anyone notices tomorrow.”

“You seem like fun.” You don’t mean it as a compliment, but Hanji absolutely beams at you.

“Obviously. You have no idea how hard it is to drag Mike out of the offices.” She jerks her chin at someone sitting at the bar. “It takes a  _shitload_  of fun. Or threats of failing all my students. Actually, come to think of it, he’s pretty easy to manipulate.” She rubs her chin thoughtfully for a moment before seeming to notice you again. “Right! Anyway, thanks for giving me back my undergrad’s DNA and my dead hormone-jacked fish. Hate that it’s so far out of your way, though.”

“No problem.” You slide back into your own jacket and it’s still warm, which _should_ gross you out - it’s someone else’s body heat, someone else’s dead skin cells and hair and sweat - but it doesn’t. It hardly even smells the same. There’s only the barest hint of Windex and cigarette smoke under the formaldehyde and roses.

But it doesn’t bother you.

Hanji’s looking at you in a way that makes you swallow. “Ya know,” she says like she’s going to offer you a job or something, “we’re only like… halfway through this bar crawl, if you want to team up with us for the rest of it. I’ll tell you what all the other shit in my pockets is for, if you do.”

“Fine,” you say. You say it a little too fast, and she can tell, and neither of you care.

**Author's Note:**

> Revenge-fluff for all the sad levihan things someonestolemyshoes writes. have at ye.


End file.
